


It's Such a Good Vibration (It's Such a Sweet Sensation)

by realmythology



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: (but not much), Canon Divergence - Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Clint Barton & Natasha Romanoff - Freeform, Clint Barton & Wanda Maximoff - Freeform, Domestic Avengers, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/M, Getting Together, M/M, Minor Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Minor Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Minor Wanda Maximoff/Vision, Natasha Is a Good Bro, Oblivious Clint, One Big Happy Family, Pining, but everyone else kinda knows what's up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-03-30 16:37:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3943900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/realmythology/pseuds/realmythology
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They fit together better than anyone had expected them to. </p><p>... Yeah, no one had seen that one coming, and he kind of hated the kid’s dumb catchphrase.</p><p>—</p><p>(Clint tries and fails at a life of domesticity, Natasha meddles, an engagement is announced, and Clint really does see better from a distance because he's terrible at dealing with anything close to home.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Such a Good Vibration (It's Such a Sweet Sensation)

**Author's Note:**

> **edit:** reuploaded because i managed to fuck up uploading this the first time. what? today i learned not to use the drafts feature on ao3.
> 
>  **on the subject of clint and laura:** in this fic, cooper and lila aren't clint's kids, they're hers through a past marriage, but she's been with clint for about four years now—since just before the first avengers movie. the fic's kind of heavy on clint/laura angst at the beginning. oops. **also:** i kept clint's age kinda ambiguous so that you could decide how old you want him to be, depending on what kind of age gap you're comfortable with. he's 44 in mcu canon, but i occasionally like picturing him at 38. just saying. 
> 
> other than that, i did my best to more or less keep things canon. keep in mind that i haven't really felt the urge to write a fic in _years_ and this is unbeta'd, so any mistakes you see managed to slip past my quick reviews. this was really just supposed to be a dumb, quick little oneshot. then it expanded. now it's gonna be a series. oops again.
> 
> onward!

—✣—

If anyone asked (and they didn’t), Clint Barton made a damn good go of keeping himself uninvolved with the reforming Avengers.

The former agent known as Codename: Hawkeye had made pretty specific plans when it came to things he was expressly not going to do ever again, the top of the list saying things like _don’t get involved in anything that might end the world_ and _don’t interact with any aliens who aren’t Thor_ and, most importantly, _don’t talk too much with the others because you might end up getting dragged back into the fray and die because you’re getting old and you fight with a bow and arrow, idiot._

The first two were pretty avoidable, considering he lived on a farm. That last one didn’t work out. Apparently, despite their near-constant ribbing, his friends and former teammates actually liked him. 

So it followed that he heard all about what’d been going on, a little bit from everyone. Actually, he pretty much violated his own rules on the daily with how much he talked to the others—or, more accurately, how much they talked to him. He and Nat were in constant contact, even more so than what was usual for them, but if she wanted someone to take some of her attention away from other things then he wasn’t going to call her out on it. Cap liked to check in as well, which was surprisingly nice; Clint had a sneaking suspicion it was because he didn’t give the guy as much shit as the others did. Tony, of course, was always bothering everyone, and Clint had woken up more than one morning to see a handful of middle-of-the-night group texts from the billionare about everything and nothing. The others were touch and go, but he’d heard from them in his months away too; Nat’d even set up a skype date during the new base’s housewarming, which he’d declined to physically attend despite multiple invitations.

So, yeah, he’d been kept in the loop despite having had the purest intentions to get way the hell out of it. Like, at least a good dozen meters away from the loop. 

He’d gotten updates as the complex was being built, mostly Tony sending pictures with captions along the lines of _I just set up the training room and hoo boy is it sweet. And how’re your home projects coming along?_ Bastard. He’d heard about Cap and Sam’s attempts at tracking down the ever-elusive Winter Soldier through Cap, and had heard about Steve’s attempts at hiding how much all the dead ends were upsetting him from Sam. Though they tended to avoid the subject, Natasha’s voice would occasionally fall to a subdued murmur as she told him about her lack of success in searching for Bruce. 

And then there were the twins.

The recovery, of course—it’d been big news, a groundbreaking success on Dr. Cho’s part and a reason to celebrate for everyone else. Wanda had been over the moon. She’d been the one to deliver the news when the process had been finished, sending Clint a video of herself and Pietro, both happy and healthy, waving at the camera. (She cut it off right as her brother started saying something he undoubtedly thought was witty. Nice girl; he’d liked her easily.) Wanda had kept in contact with him more than he’d expected, actually, first by asking for a turn to speak with him whenever she’d chanced upon someone else on the phone with him and eventually through a cellphone of her own (courtesy of Tony, of course.) 

It hadn’t taken long for him to realize that what he’d initially thought was just her wanting someone to talk to was actually her wanting to talk to him. After that understanding was reached, it became pretty apparent that she felt comfortable talking to him in a way that she didn’t with the others just yet, which was one part weird and two parts kind of sweet. But Clint had kind of a tendency towards picking up (incredibly dangerous) stray Eastern European kids, his history with that going back a good ten years with Nat, so it wasn’t that much of a surprise. It was nice to watch Wanda blossom under positive attention, surrounded by people who understood her more than any civilians could. Clint knew that feeling; he could recognize the way she lit up whenever she talked about everything going on around her, soft voice full to bursting with tightly coiled excitement that she didn’t want to give away. 

And, of course, Pietro had called him, smug as anything, as soon as he heard the baby’s name. That’d been obnoxious. Clint had promptly sent Tony a strongly-worded message about giving the new recruits phones that had his number pre-programmed because _what if I want some peace and quiet for once, huh? ever think of that?_

Stark, of course, had responded within the minute. _No you don’t, but good effort. Who’re you trying to kid, buddy?_

—

As he’d suspected, the first floor’s layout really did look much better without the walled-off dining room. No, really, who used dining rooms?

The sunlight could come in through the kitchen windows and bathe everything in gold now. And it did every day, the light catching dust motes as Clint evened out the paint in the ceiling and ripped up and redid the parquet floors till it was impossible to tell that there’d ever been a wall there in the first place. 

It wasn’t enough. 

He painted all the walls, taking them from pale yellows occasionally smudged with children’s fingerprints in the way that never really came off to the off-beige color that Laura’d had sitting in the garage for a good year but never gotten around to instating. He yanked out all the old carpets in the second floor and replaced them, got them ones that were soft underfoot and wouldn’t retain too much dust. He chopped wood till his shoulders could barely untense and his back was aching, because no matter how much Steve had managed to chop in the course of twenty minutes, winter was no friend and they’d more in a month. He took a week to fix every leak, investigate every strange creak, and quiet every door in the house. The tractor really _had_ been broken though they’d used it as a ruse to lure Tony into the barn on his own, so Clint got it back in working order with a dusty manual and some colorful swearing. 

When he was helping Lila fill in her coloring books with watercolors, he heard the news (generally background noise, but it was good to keep an eye out) mention Captain America. Attention caught, he turned his head to listen to the anchor say that the Avengers had managed to calm down an insurgency in Southeast Asia that’d quickly turned dangerous and more than a little bloody due to the presence of some heavy artillery that definitely shouldn’t have been on hand. He saw shaky camera footage of Wanda’s twisting arms, red enveloping a huge tank and squeezing its gun in and up until it was unusable; saw Steve and Nat helping up bleeding civilians while Pietro, little more than a silver flash, pushed others out of the way of the blasts Rhodey and Sam were fielding; saw Vision diving in and out of the tanks, disarming them like it was nothing. 

Saw the red staining the streets from people they hadn’t been able to save, no matter how quick they’d gotten there. 

The shed needed a new roof, come to think of it.

—

“Yeah.” Not the most eloquent greeting, but whatever.

“Hello, Clint. How are you?” The sound of Wanda’s lilting voice, warm but still almost shy, as though she wasn’t quite sure he didn’t mind her calling, made Clint smile a bit. 

“Hey, kid. I’m doing okay, driving to town for some supplies.” He was going to ask about her, but Wanda replied before he got the chance.

“And little Pietro?” 

“You know his name’s Nate, right?” She could probably hear his smile, bigger now. He could definitely hear hers. “He’s a handful for sure. Keeps us up all hours, but Cooper and Lila’ve been sneaking into the nursery to help out. Has Nat been showing you pictures?” 

“Yes.” It somehow comes out both bright and slightly abashed at once. “He is very sweet; I think he resembles your wife more than yourself, however.” 

“Girlfriend. And good for him, I say. How’re you doing, Wanda? I saw you guys in the news the other day. You come out of it okay?”

“Yes, it was not as bad as it could have been. I am still getting used to these missions on the field, though they are not so bad—nothing compared to what we have seen.” A beat passed. “It is still strange, knowing how I felt about these people only a year ago. And now to be fighting beside them, to trust them…”

Clint could appreciate that. There’d been so much confusion and side-switching when it came to the people he’d fought both with and against that it had sometimes been a feat in and of itself to keep tabs on everyone at once. He didn’t miss how much it meant that Wanda was telling him this, a conversation she’d probably only had with her brother and no one else. It made a weird sort of affection well up in him. 

“I know the feeling, believe me. But they all trust you, and I know you trust them, so just work on finding your rhythm. How’s training going?” 

“Steve can be… demanding.” Was that a pout in her voice? “He has the best intentions, yes, but it can be exhausting. I think he is missing Thor and the tricks they could do together with the hammer and shield. But it is more than that, I think. He seems… Sad, at times. He leaves very often with Sam on missions he cannot tell us about.” There was caution in her tone, and he could tell she was asking him without actually asking. Clint sighed. That wasn’t his story to tell.

“Don’t worry about it, trust me. He’s got his own problems, and he’s trying to get them sorted. All you gotta do is tough it out, alright? You can handle anything Cap dishes out, trust me.” 

“Thank you.” Clint can hear the smile in her voice, the honest gratitude. Funny how a little praise can go a long way. He’s reminded for a second of how young she is, how damned lonely she’s probably been for years (and hey, he can relate to shitty childhoods, but hers definitely takes the cake,) and he wonders when he decided to step into a weird pseudo-dad role. How did that happen? “I was wondering if—”

“Morning, old man.” Whatever Wanda had been about to ask was cut off by her brother’s voice. Same accent; same lilt; much less welcome baritone. He probably ran past her in the middle of the question and plucked the phone straight from her hand, the brat. “Planning on visiting us anytime soon?”

“Not as long as you’re there.” Clint could hear Wanda saying something in the background, slightly muffled, and he huffed an amused breath. “What was Wanda gonna ask me?”

“Same thing I just did.” 

“And you just decided it was a good time to steal the phone?”

“I know you miss me, what can I say. How is Pietro?”

“His name is Nathaniel, and for the last damn time, I suggested the name to Laura before we knew you were gonna pull a Lazarus and she wouldn’t let me change it. Something about the nobility of your sacrifice or whatever, which I call bullshit on, by the way. What is it with all of you bugging me about my son all the time? Don’t you have a world to save?” 

“Smart woman, clearly. Do not protest so much, it is in bad taste to make it so obvious how much you care for me. You have a girlfriend and child, Barton.” 

“Bite me, punk.” Clint rolled his eyes, pulling the phone away from his ear and hanging up. If Wanda wanted to talk to him, she’d call back as soon as her brother was off being annoying somewhere else. 

But if she really had been about to ask when he’d come visit… Clint entertained the possibility for less than a second before shaking his head and stowing it away. That wasn’t going to happen, for more reasons than he wanted to list. His lists of things to stay away from and reasons to avoid anything S.H.I.E.L.D or Avengers-related were getting convoluted and ridiculous. 

(And then there was a weird hollow aching in his bones that just wouldn’t go away, and he didn’t want to think of what that feeling would turn into if he was around all of them again.)

Nah. This was where he belonged. 

Really.

—

“Hey, stranger.” Laura’s voice was soft as it broke through the silence, making Clint look up from where he’d been reattaching the screen door that lead to the kitchen. It’d been badly torn and in need of a new coat of paint, so he’d been seeing to that—Nate sleeping peacefully in the stroller a good dozen feet away where paint fumes wouldn’t bother his nose much.

She’d walked around the house to come to him, one hand holding a cup of iced tea and the other barely touching on the edge of Nate’s stroller, a subconsciously protective gesture. She was honestly beautiful, long dark hair catching a bit of reddish-gold in the afternoon sun, and Clint gave her a smile.

“What can I do for you?” he asked lightly, releasing the door for a moment to accept the offered drink. It was appreciated—the day was hotter than it had any right to be, and he could already feel the sweat collecting on his back and along his forehead.

“I just wanted to see you. You’ve been quiet.”

“That wasn’t what you were saying last night to me and Coop.” 

“Just because you two were being a menace, Clinton.” Her smile was warm and her voice was even warmer as she moved closer, slim arms winding around his waist. She felt familiar against his side, soft and smooth all over, and Clint angled his body to press a kiss to her temple and wrap an arm around her shoulders. It seemed like the right move, because she sighed and tucked her face into the curve of his throat. “Stop wandering off, huh? I need you here, with us.” She left a loving kiss on his collar, made Clint close his eyes with the touch. 

He didn’t deserve this woman, with her kind eyes and soft hands. How had she ended up stuck with the likes of him? 

“Yes, ma’am.”

—

_“I’ve got no strings on me…”_

Clint’s eyes snapped open. He stared up at the ceiling, eyes boring into the darkness. 

His temples were wet with sweat, and all he could see was debris flying through the air, thousands of faces he couldn’t recognize twisted in terror, fluffy white clouds, and the blood clinging to Pietro Maximoff’s lips as he collapsed to the ground riddled with bullets. 

Beside him, Laura slept peacefully, a hand extended towards him with her palm facing the ceiling.

—

He started having trouble sleeping. Relocating to the baby’s room most nights so that he could be alone with his thoughts and quick to react when Nate woke up didn’t seem to soothe Laura much; it made her brow pucker with worry.

The cool, smooth hands that she’d run across his cheeks and through his hair felt fragile.

—

“Hello?”

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself. Aren’t you supposed to be doing something important right about now? Cracking the whip on the sweet, innocent new Avengers? Tell me you made the brat cry.” It was too easy to fall into step with Nat, this conversation beginning like any other. That was how it was between them—easy. Especially when nothing else seemed to make any sense. 

“Ha ha. It’s almost cute, how you two mock each other like children.” Natasha paused, and he could just tell that she was about to spring something that he wouldn’t enjoy. “A little birdy told me that you’ve been off your game for a while now.” Bingo.

“What? You—oh. Laura?” 

“Yeah. I called you this morning, you didn’t see?” 

“I was out in the barn all day fixing the upper level’s flooring, it was getting all old and—yeah. You called? Something come up?”

“No, I was just going to ask after my almost-namesake. Which I got to do, since Laura answered. She sent me a video of you with Nate, too, by the way. I’m gonna get everyone to start calling you Daddy Hawk around here.” 

“Cute, real cute. I’m sure it’ll catch on. Wanna tell me what she said?”

“What do you think she said?”

“Nat, come on.”

“Basically that you’ve been weird and she’s worried. Do _you_ wanna tell me what’s eating at you?” 

Clint took a moment at the question. He wasn’t sure that he should answer, wasn’t even sure what he wanted to say to her. Wasn’t sure what he _could_ say. Everything was perfect, wasn’t it? He’d finished his last mission, they’d saved the day, and now he got to be at home with his girlfriend and the kids. It wasn’t like he was being kept up by PTSD (something that’d happened more than once, and this weird itch at the back of his mind was _not_ that); he wasn’t depressed, and he honestly had no lasting aftereffects from the battle in Sokovia. 

“Clint?”

Honestly, compared to any of the others, whatever weird problems he was having were absolutely minimal. He just felt… Wrong. Out of place.

Maybe that tended to happen when you spend half your life a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent and then decide to hang up your towel when you know there’s more you can do. 

“Clint.”

So he told her.

—✣—

Two weeks later found Clint exactly where he told himself he _wouldn’t_ be six months ago.

(It was a couple weeks to Thanksgiving, and Laura had softly said that maybe he’d be better off with some space; better that he leave sooner rather than later.)

It’d been a long trip that’d spanned a couple of days because he’d insisted on taking his car over getting a lift. He’d wanted the extra time to clear his mind and try to figure out if he really was doing the right thing for everyone, but thirty-five hours of driving later and he still had no idea what the fuck he was doing with himself. He’d always been kind of a fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants guy, which was probably how he’d ended up where he was rather than living as a sensible civilian, so Clint ended up figuring it’d have to be good enough. 

Besides, even through her condolences that things hadn’t worked out, Clint knew Nat well enough to know that she was more excited about him coming back than she let on. She was the one who was waiting for him, painting a pretty picture when Clint Barton, supposedly-formerly-but-apparently-once-again Codename: Hawkeye, found himself driving up to the sparkly new Avengers complex. 

“Welcome back, Barton.” There was that little twist at the corners of her lips, the one that he knew meant she was restraining herself from smiling as wide as she wanted to.

“Romanoff,” he replied with a smirk, moving into her space. One arm wound around her shoulders, the other curled back holding his duffel over his shoulder as they made their way inside; Natasha leaned into him easy, her body small and warm against his side. 

“Took you a while to get here.” 

“Yeah, well, time to myself did me some good.”

“Mm-hm.” He caught the wry look the redhead shot him and grinned, giving her shoulder a squeeze. “Sure it did. The others’re happy you’re back too. Steve especially. We can always use all hands on deck, with how things keep going.” 

“Doesn’t look like you’re on deck today,” Clint responded, nodding to Natasha’s jeans. The boots she wore had heels high enough to make her stature slightly more intimidating, but still looked good for walking; she’d been dressed like this all day, then. 

“It’s Sunday. We’re resting.” She shrugged, an arm winding around Clint’s waist. He didn’t miss the light pressure she put on where he’d been shot on Sokovia, as though checking to make sure he was hale and whole. (He was, though Dr. Cho had expressed her disbelief at his luck—getting injured in the same spot twice in a matter of days? Honestly.) 

“Mm, that’s nice. Means I’ll get a chance to rest before facing the new team?” 

“Please. You have an hour, Clint. I arranged dinner, so be there.” She’d been winding him through mostly empty hallways, taking him down a level through an elevator that opened to her handprint, through another hallway until they stopped between two doors. She angled him towards the one on the right, and Clint did a double take at what he saw on it. Was that—? 

“This my room?” There was a bow on the door, which was sort of unmistakable, but still. “You set it up fast.”

“It’s been here this whole time. There’re a couple windows in the ceiling leading up to the grounds, Tony remembered how much you don’t like closed spaces.” She gave him a small smile, tapping an access code—her birthday. Cute. Clint scoffed to express his feelings about that, and her smile inched a bit wider as she pushed the door open for him. “I had to do a lot of convincing to get you this spot even though you were gone, so you should appreciate it.” She motioned to the door across from his. Her symbol was on the door clear as day, and he smiled a bit, completely unsurprised. “I’m right across from you if you need me. The layout’s bigger than back in the tower, so we get to keep all the luxuries while sharing floors. Figured you’d wanna be on this one.” 

“Thanks, Nat.” That about summed it up. The redhead leaned against the doorway as Clint tossed his duffel into the nearby couch, stretching out his back and looking the place over. It reminded him of the place Tony’d made for him back in the city, the comfortable layout that Pepper and Natasha’d inevitably had a say in because they knew best just what he’d want.

He turned back to see her beating down another smile, pushing herself off the doorframe and stepping back into the hall. “You’re welcome. Common space is two floors down; see you in an hour. Don’t be late.”

—

The reunion was a happy one, things as easy and comfortable as they’d ever been. Wilson and Rhodes were familiar faces, and holding a conversation with Vision was equal parts disconcerting and comforting, same as it had always been. It was kind of like hanging out with the group used to be, with a slightly different dynamic and the addition of the twins—but they’d carved a place for themselves in the Avengers, and Clint got to see firsthand how comfortable they’d gotten with their new place in the world. Wanda looked polished in a way she hadn’t before, long hair tended to by one of Nat’s hairdressers and wearing clothing that’d probably costed more than her entire wardrobe six months ago; her brother was a constant blur of activity, all smiles in a way Clint hadn’t expected.

All in all, things didn’t feel all that different. 

The expected questions came throughout dinner. Clint shrugged them off and dodged giving serious answers, describing a well-meaning but completely botched attempt at settling into domesticity. (He didn’t talk about it any further, and as for Natasha, she wasn’t sharing the details when prodded.) As long as he smiled and nudged the conversation somewhere fun for all of them, it was easy to ignore the seed of guilt in the back of his mind. 

By the time they all drifted apart into separate conversations, everyone’d had a couple of beers and was in as good a mood as ever. Clint found himself playing darts with Cap—unsurprisingly beating a completely sober Steve. He’d barely managed to get the others to admit the dartboard was a recent addition to the room; Nat’d set it up within a day of learning heard he’d be coming back. 

“Alright, five rounds and I’m just embarrassing myself now,” Steve chuckled, handing his last dart to Clint and shaking his head. “Only you can make a perfectly respectable score look that bad.”

“Hey, it’s my one party trick. Don’t hate. Not all of us can lift the couch with everyone on it.” Clint tilted his head and landed the dart barely off-center—so the bullseye was split perfectly with the other two darts he’d landed. Steve’s dart sat sadly a good couple inches away.

“Haven’t you had, like, four beers, man?” Sam called out from the couch, flashing his bright smile. Clint nodded in response, heading over to the board to retrieve his darts. 

“I never miss.” 

“Really?” Pietro was suddenly in front of him, holding all four darts out. Clint gave the younger man a slightly suspicious look, but accepted the darts back. “Never?” His voice was more curious than mocking, and he hadn’t tried to stab Clint with the darts, so he counted it as benevolent interaction. The kid had actually been pretty friendly over the course of the night, having taken his snark down to somewhere around a two where he was usually a solid eight. 

“Really. Have to have something going for me, don’t I?” 

“Tony says you got some of the best eyes in the world, man. How’d that happen?” It was Rhodey chiming in now, the game he and Sam had been playing on the widescreen paused for the moment. Clint shrugged in response, twirling a dart between his fingers. 

“Maybe I’m born with it.”

“Don’t finish that joke, Barton. That’s bad even for you.” Sam grinned and shook his head, turning his body back to face the screen (and the joke wouldn’t have been _that_ bad, come on.) Rhodey followed his example, and Steve turned to watch the game as well with a final, amused shake of his head. 

Clint would’ve thought that he was being left alone to his thoughts if it hadn’t been for the barely-perceptible vibrating coming from the man beside him. “You haven’t run off yet?” he asked lightly, lobbing a dart towards the board. He didn’t bother to look, he knew it hit the target. Pietro had an odd look on his face, and Clint wondered if the kid had just barely restrained himself from catching the dart mid-flight. Probably.

“You aren’t always so boring, Agent Barton.” He was suddenly at Clint’s other side, a sudden displacement of the air behind Clint the only indicator of his movement. The archer rolled his shoulders, slightly discomfited by the whisper of air that’d brushed along his neck. 

“What a compliment. I’m not an agent anymore, technically. Just Clint’s fine.” 

“Mm. How long were you a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent?” 

“If you’re sniffing for information to plot my demise, I don’t think you’ll find anything along that vein. Half my life, give or take? Probably longer than you’ve been alive, junior. What’re you, nineteen?” 

He could tell that rankled. The boy crossed his arms over his chest, face pulling into an unimpressed grimace. “ _Twenty-six._ ” 

“Ah, well. Can’t always be right, that’s Nat’s job.” Clint flashed a smile and tossed another dart. This one never hit its target, and he rolled his eyes when he looked over at Pietro to see it twirling between the younger man’s fingers. 

“So. Longer than I’ve been alive?” 

“Eh, not quite. Why the interest?” 

“I can’t try to bond with my teammates?” Somehow his accent made the question—stated overly innocently—sound faintly sinister. 

“See, that could’ve been convincing if it was anyone else talking.” 

“You are awfully suspicious, aren’t you, old man?”

“Don’t knock it, it’s kept me alive to this ripe old age.” 

“No—I thought it was me who did that?”

Clint suddenly found himself speechless. He stared at the kid for a moment, receiving only raised brows and clear blue eyes in response. Clearly, the speedster didn’t think as much of the comment as Clint did. After another beat, he shook his head and turned his attention back to the dartboard. 

“… Yeah. Thanks for that. I never got to thank you in person. So. Thanks.” The words didn’t really do it justice, but—well, he’d never claimed to be a poet. Pietro seemed to think that it was enough, shrugging easily. 

“You’re welcome. It’s what we do for our teammates, no?” 

The dart was extended back to him, a small shock of red plastic against Pietro’s pale skin and dark blue shirt. Clint found himself smiling as he accepted it. 

The kid wasn’t so bad.

—

What no one had expected was for them to get along like a house on fire.

Of course, it wasn’t like they were suddenly best buddies— they bickered too much for that, so much so that the rest of the team was half-convinced they’d seriously need to stop Clint from shooting the newly-dubbed Quicksilver after a badly-timed bit of snark. That hadn’t been the case, of course, but only because Pietro never failed to dodge the arrows and Clint knew that but it was therapeutic to shoot at him anyway. 

Pepper, miles away and more delicate than any of them but still twice as intimidating, ended up enforcing a strict no-flying-weapons-of-any-sort policy in the shared living space when arrow-shaped holes started ruining the walls. And shattering their many windows in the upper levels. And then scratching the new reinforced windows, because _remember that we’re paying for all of this, Tony!_ Stark, of course, responded by sending Clint a line of sucker-ended and boxing-glove arrows just for fun, and even fielded the following argument with Pepper because they _clearly_ weren’t weapons. Clint loved them.

And even if the Sokovian’s favorite pastime hadn’t been playfully ribbing the archer (his words—Clint preferred “driving me absolutely fucking _insane_ ”,) there was always the Sokovian himself. Pietro’s temper was a nasty one, and quick to trigger as the rest of him; he was a mouthy, cynical bastard, and didn’t always come off as too friendly. He tended to be a shade more respectful of the other members of the team, but he and Clint already had a well-established history of trading quips. Honestly, the kid could be something of a pain. 

But… But. 

But Pietro was a good guy in all the ways that mattered, and Clint was kind of grudgingly fond of him. His first night back with the group had been something of an indication; while they did snipe at each other enough to make Cap snap his frustration through the comms, there was a friendly edge to it. (Come on, Clint would never actually shoot at the kid if there was a chance he’d _hit_ him. He wasn’t a damn psychopath.) Quicksilver’s wit was wicked and he made Clint laugh a good deal more than he’d expected—and when they teamed up on someone else, the victim (usually Cap) barely survived the roasting they got. It was kind of fun to have a partner in crime other than Nat, partially because her sense of humor, like the rest of her personality, was actually kind of dorky under her razor-sharp exterior. 

So, yeah. They fit together better than anyone had expected them to. 

And then there was the proof that, like Wanda, Pietro had more of a thirst for approval than he let on. It was dangerous to give him any praise considering how damn cocky he already was, but the way he glowed under a good word here or there almost made inflating his ego worth it. It was a combination Clint had seen more than once, one that he’d lived through himself—lots of potential, buckets of pride, a dash of arrogance, and a long history of being starved for positive attention. 

Of course, the only reason this was all so obvious was because Pietro (again, like Wanda) seemed to have fixed on Clint as his best bet for father figure. Clint wondered sometimes if Nat’s “Daddy Hawk” campaign had worked out better than he realized.

Clint figured he must came off more paternal than he thought, because he honestly felt like Steve would’ve been a better choice. But hey, if the twins wanted him to take them under his wing, who was he to say no to a pair of kids who wanted some extra attention? It was a weird thought, mostly because while he was fond of both, Pietro didn’t really manage to inspire as many pseudo-paternal feelings like Wanda did. Which was fine, because he had different dynamics with them anyway.

So, yeah. It wasn’t the weirdest thing that’d happened to him, not even in the past year, and Hawkeye just sort of rolled with it.

Besides, it was kind of satisfying to see Pietro I-Smirk-At-Everything-Like-An-Asshole-Because-I-Can Maximoff smile to himself and move with an extra little hop in his step whenever Clint clapped him on the shoulder and told him he’d done good. 

Nat seemed to find the whole thing pretty funny, but he didn’t blame her. What even was his life? 

These days it was things like tucking a highly volatile telepathic/telekinetic/reality-altering enhanced girl to bed when she fell asleep reading on the common area’s couch, or trying to explain the merits of trashy comedies to Vision. Oh, or making the Avengers plus Tony and Pepper a good and proper Thanksgiving dinner with only Sam helping him. Yeah, apparently a room full of super-beings and secret agents and billionaires could barely scrap edible food together, but he knew that none of them had anywhere else to celebrate and he wasn’t spending the holiday with his own family, so he’d be damned if he didn’t make the day count. 

(Though he did leave Sam manning the helm for a good fifteen minutes to call Laura. She was still subdued when talking to him, but she’d never deny him the chance to see Nathaniel and the kids he practically considered his own. He hadn’t deserved that woman, whose eyes were tired instead of shining now, because of him.

But he pushed past that. He had fucked that up, but there wasn’t time for angsting, not when their home was so full.) 

Tony got into a friendly argument with Steve over the problems with celebrating Thanksgiving, Natasha nearly skewered Clint for telling the team about how absolutely hopeless she was in the kitchen, and he had to spend the whole time on his toes to make sure that Pietro didn’t eat the ingredients whenever he turned his head. The working conditions weren’t ideal, but it was worth it to see everyone gathered together at the end of the day at one of the mess hall tables they’d dragged down from the upper levels, smiling and laughing and eating almost like regular people. 

He and Sam shared a fistbump over dinner. They woke up to matching piles of of Black Friday goodies in front of their doors the next morning, courtesy of everyone Tony had wrangled into what he called “consumerist funtimes”—so, basically, almost everyone.

Clint found himself smiling a lot more these days, despite everything.

—

There were times when it was just better not to argue.

“Stop moving around so much or I’ll stab you.” 

Clint liked to argue anyway.

Pietro snorted from where he was splayed across the couch, legs up on Clint’s lap and his head resting in Wanda’s. He was only getting away with the position because he’d gotten some truly nasty burns while herding civilians out of the way of a bunch of laser-wielding Hydra thugs who’d refused to go out without a bang. It’d been fairly small-scale, just Cap, War Machine, Widow, and Quicksilver, but it’d taken a good couple of hours and Pietro hadn’t been the only one with a scrape or two to show for his participation. 

On the bright side, that meant that another remote base was down, and Hydra was getting weaker by the day. On the less bright side, it meant that meant that Clint couldn’t be a dick to the younger man without feeling like… well, a dick. Even with his crazy accelerated healing, what’d happened to his back was no cakewalk. 

“Forgive me for not trembling in fear. You would stab me with, what, your sharp wit?”

“Oh, that one was clever. Good job kid, four for you.” The archer rolled his eyes and locked a hand around one of the ankles resting in his lap, laying his wrist over the other to still it. He noted distractedly that the boy would need new sneakers soon; he only wore these in his downtime, and they were already getting ragged. 

Miraculously, it seemed to work. It was actually sort of a surprise that Pietro would acquiesce, considering how restless the younger man could be; even when he was blessedly still, there were times when he was almost vibrating with energy. 

This wasn’t one of those times. He’d gone almost totally still under Clint’s firm grip, no vibrations, no impatient jerks or shifts, just flesh and bone and the steady pulse of blood under his hand. He felt more real than he ever had, like any other regular person whose ankles could be trapped in Clint’s hand. 

Weird. He’s not complaining, though. 

“How’s your back?” The question was met with an incredulous look. What? Clint could be considerate. It took a couple seconds, but the older Maximoff eventually responded in a more subdued tone.

“It is fine.”

“He is worried because the pain lingers, and it usually does not take so long for his wounds to heal.” Wanda’s voice cut through the conversation, though her eyes barely flicked from the television screen. Pietro glared up at her, though he didn’t dislodge her hand from where it was scritching at his scalp. He was kind of like a cat sometimes, which would’ve been endearing if he weren’t the sort of cat that’d tear your apartment apart if you were gone for too long. 

“Don’t worry about it, kid. Rogers got a good shot to the thigh, he’s not healing up as fast as usual either.” Clint gave the ankle in his grip a reassuring squeeze, and felt Pietro jerk the slightest bit in response. Then he was still again, silence falling over the three of them as they watched the documentary on cuttlefish that Wanda had found on the Discovery Channel. (Seriously, _what_?) 

Clint didn’t notice until a couple minutes later that he’d been rubbing circles into Pietro’s ankle with his thumb. But the kid had relaxed deeper into the couch, looking a good five seconds from nodding off, so he figured the touch was appreciated. Clint caught Wanda’s eye and she gave him a smile, small and sweet, and he couldn’t help smiling back a bit.

The twins were definitely growing on him.

—

The first couple weeks back had been re-testing his boundaries, getting his reflexes back to being top-tier. Civilian life hadn’t made him sloppy, especially not after more than twenty years with S.H.I.E.L.D. and then a couple more with the Avengers, but he’d gone a little soft around the edges, a little more tame. That wasn’t going to work.

And then there was the new team dynamic to get used to. The Avengers had been a well-oiled machine, fitting together surprisingly naturally; the new lineup was damn near perfect by the time Clint rejoined, but the moves were different and it took some getting used to. Luckily, he was a fast learner. 

It was almost easy to forget he’d been gone for so long; by the time December rolled around, Hawkeye was settled in like he’d been there all along. 

He’d been wrong, back when he’d thought he could settle like that into a regular life with Laura. It had been all too easy to fall into old routines with her and the kids, but it didn’t last. Those routines had been formed between missions when he’d known that he was relaxing, that it was a vacation; they hadn’t been constructed to properly withstand time. Months. Preferably years. 

It was his fault, like most things that happened in his personal life. Clint recognized that. His plans tended to be slapdash, a lot of feeling but not much thought put into them. 

And it had been fine at first, really. Idyllic, even. Then months passed, and there was a happy bouncing baby boy in his arms, and Laura was looking at him like they’d be together forever—a natural assumption, since they had a _kid_ together now, his flesh and hers, and damn if he didn’t love her but the thought of forever like that felt damn near impossible. Coming home to her had been like walking into a dream, closing his eyes and letting himself enjoy soft kisses and pancake breakfasts and kids who called out _Dad!_ when they saw him instead of _oh my god, Hawkeye, will you sign my—?_

But like with any dream, he knew that reality was looming just outside the bedroom door. He knew that there was more he could do, more he should do. People he could save, people he should kill. 

Teammates who would need him. 

How many times had he seen something none of them had, fired an arrow that had just barely stopped Natasha from getting shot in the back or Thor from being stabbed right through? 

The faint itch that had started after a couple weeks home didn’t go away like he’d expected it to, it’d just gotten worse and worse until suddenly the thought of continuing on like he was wouldn’t let him sleep. 

That was what he’d told Natasha. 

All she’d responded was that he should come back home. “Home with us,” she’d said, partially in clarification but mostly in emphasis.

And he’d gone. He wondered sometimes, in the middle of the night, if Laura still wore the ring he’d gotten her a couple of years ago. It’d been a promise back then, not an immediate one, but a promise of _some day_. She’d never prodded or pushed, patient with him almost to a fault, and she’d paid for it. Clint figured he’d always feel guilty about that, but it wouldn’t be the first time he’d made a woman a promise he couldn’t keep. 

This, his ridiculous life with superheroes and covert missions and media frenzies, felt more like home than the farm ever really had. He’d just never wanted to admit to himself.

—

“Attention, please. Yeah, eyes on me, c’mon.”

Tony stood in the middle of the common room’s living space, hands spread and glancing around at the people assembled. The Avengers team was all there, having gathered when Tony had arrived with Pepper and an almost comically big red sack of presents in tow earlier. 

They weren’t alone, however; Thor had returned a week before, pale-faced and weary in a way they’d never seen from what he’d come back to in Asgard. He seemed better now that everything had been settled and he’d gotten some time and distance from the situation, and he even gamely pretended he didn’t notice the concerned glances the others couldn’t help shooting him. Dr. Foster was currently curled into his side, almost ridiculously tiny beside his bulk; she’d spent the week at the mansion with them despite all the work she’d been in the middle of when Thor had returned. Clint personally thought it had been a good call, mostly because of the way Thor’s tired eyes seemed to soften every time he looked at the brunette.

There had been a bigger Christmas Eve gathering earlier when Tony had arrived, held in the upper levels of the mansion for any and all of the Avengers’ friends, associates, and facility employees to join. (Tony had (sarcastically? genuinely? no one really knew) insisted on calling it a ‘Winter Solstice party’ after Pietro had tartly informed him that he and his sister were Jewish. Clint had noted Tony stuffing a wayward Santa hat into his coat pocket after that exchange, though the Christmas theme was obvious.) It’d been a good time; Tony definitely knew how to throw a party. But now that it was nearing midnight, the only people left were the ones who really mattered to them—the people they all loved, whether they said so or not. 

For whatever reason, Tony had gone all-out and managed to set up an enormous Christmas tree in the corner with a huge stack of professionally-wrapped presents for everyone. There were Christmas lights and cookies everywhere (like, literally on every surface they could possibly be,) and Clint was beginning to think that he’d need to start monitoring everyone’s eggnog consumption. 

All in all, it was big and flashy, but still nice; pretty thoughtful, a lot generous. Kind of like everything Stark did for them. 

Hence, everyone felt pretty obliged to give the man their attention when he called for it. Clint paused the poker game he’d been playing with Rhodey, Sam, and Nat—wherein everyone insisted that Clint and Nat were cheating every few minutes when they _obviously_ weren’t—and swiveled his body to face Tony with interest. Vision and Wanda floated down from where they’d been adding extra decorations to the top of the Christmas tree, her on his shoulders, Steve and Pietro paused the demonstration Steve had been giving of a proper wristlock for people they actually didn’t want to injure, and the happy couple looked up from where they’d undoubtedly been whispering interdimensional star-science at each other on the couch. 

Once he saw that he had their attention, Tony cleared his throat and clapped his hands together. 

“Alright, guys, there’s no right way to do this so I’m just gonna go ahead and throw it out for all of you to hear. Pep, please?” The brunet extended a hand to his girlfriend, who’d just been setting her tablet down—last minute work, no doubt—and getting up. She approached Tony with a small smile, smoothing down her white dress. 

They looked good together. Tony gave her hand a squeeze before turning back to the rest of the room. 

“After Pepper harassed me for months about it—”

“Tony.”

“Fine, I may have started with some misleading and slightly inaccurate information. Let me restart. After months of carefully planning out a perfect date night and painstakingly constructing a convincing speech, I botched it and ended up asking Pep to marry me over breakfast last week. She said yes.” 

There was a half-second of silence before the cheering and congratulations started. Clint stayed perched where he was, laughing and clapping at the news while most of the others took turns going over and giving hugs and handshakes. Pepper was shining, an almost-bashful smile on her red lips and Tony looked entirely too pleased with himself as he shook Steve’s hand, an arm at his fiancée’s waist. 

“Of course, you’ll all be there. I fully expect you all to represent as groomsmen—” Tony raised the hand at Pepper’s waist to single Rhodey out, the hint of a smirk on his lips, “and _you_ had better set up the bachelor party of the century, Mr. Best Man.” 

There was more clapping and congratulations, and Thor—with the first honest smile they’d seen from him since he’d come back—called for more drinks for everyone in celebration.

Things got just a little hazy after that. 

Whatever Thor had given Steve and Pietro was _fantastic_ ; their metabolisms burned through alcohol too fast for them to ever get drunk, but Thor’s was similar enough that anything that could get him drunk would work on them just as well. Which was good, which meant that everyone else could get safely shitfaced without dealing with Steve’s benign amusement (and perfect memory, and less benign potential blackmail) and Pietro’s endless mocking. 

There’d been an arm-wrestling match between Cap and Thor, a light show courtesy of Scarlet Witch, toasts to the future bride and groom, and a ridiculous amount of well-wishing and hugs from and for everyone. There had been a good amount of singing thrown in as well—the most memorable moment being when Cap had grinned bright and mischievous, for once actually looking as young as he really was, and proceeded to teach them all an absolutely _filthy_ war song.

—

It had been a great night.

Which meant that everyone (besides Vision, lucky android bastard) was probably hungover as hell on Christmas morning. 

Clint ended up, luckily, waking up in Natasha’s room with a vague recollection of them heading there when half the others had fallen asleep back in the common area and the other half were still enjoying their revels. They’d talked for a good hour before falling asleep, and she’d kept sipping from a flask—he figured she’d be downright scary when she woke up.

Somehow, Clint noted while he was easing Natasha’s head off his thigh and heading for the room across the hall, he didn’t mind. The hangover, gnarly as it was, was almost welcome after last night’s news and the good time they’d had. It just reminded that they were all the same, superhumans and enhanced humans and gods alike. 

His stomach was rolling unhappily, he ached all over, and his mouth tasted like hell, but Clint was still feeling pretty optimistic as he slipped silently out of Nat’s room. He still felt a little off-kilter so it was probably early as hell, but it was nothing that a couple alka-seltzer and a decent breakfast wouldn’t cure. Yeah, pancakes would be good.

Clint found himself blinking owlishly at the sight of Pietro standing in front of his door, blinking right back at him. 

In the half-second of surprised silence, he remembered his arm around the Sokovian’s shoulder as they lounged on the couch with the others—jokes thrown back and forth as Pietro’s head occasionally lolled against Clint’s shoulder, the vibrations of his laughter and the heat of his body passing between the both of them. Drunk Pietro tended to stumble over longer words in a way that sober Pietro didn’t, which had been fantastic; drunk Pietro was also touchier, leaning into Clint and getting comfortable in his space in ways he usually reserved for interactions with his sister. 

Alright, so their interactions had been all good. Pietro wasn’t there to tell Clint off for trying to shoot him while drunk, which was nice because that probably would have been a shitty conversation. 

“Morning, kid,” he greeted, then grimaced at how rough his voice sounded. The blond cleared his throat and tried talking again. “How you feeling?” The other man looked paler than usual, the shadows around his eyes darker than they’d been since Sokovia, but other than that he seemed alright. Looked a little stricken, though—was Clint not wearing pants or something? 

No, he was definitely wearing pants. Why the face?

“I am alright. Wanda threw things when I went to wake her, so I went to see if you would want breakfast. You seemed like you could use it—have too much last night, old man?” There was something of a sneer on the kid’s face that Clint didn’t like, something in his tone that was harsher than the easy teasing they usually fell into. The archer found himself scowling right back. 

“What? Like you’re one to talk, you were _gone_ after Thor’s go-juice.” 

“ _I_ did nothing that I would regret.” 

“ _What_?” Things clicked into place almost before the question had left Clint’s mouth. He shook his head sharply, wincing when his body reacted to the action with hostility. Ouch. “Oh God, kid, _no_. I didn’t sleep with Nat,” he said quickly, jerking his thumb over at the door behind him. “We talked about life and fell asleep. Come on, even drunk-me wouldn’t take advantage like that. Especially not with her.”

“… Ah.” The anger seemed to melt out of the younger man, arms lowering from where they’d been crossed firmly over his chest. Clint huffed wearily and clapped him on the shoulder, keying in his passcode (still Nat’s birthday, he needed to change that) and stepping into his room. 

“Good looking out, though. She’ll appreciate that you were about to bash my face in for the drunk sex we didn’t have.” He spared the younger man a smile, even though he was feeling progressively more nauseous the longer he was awake. “Do the others know you’re secretly a decent guy?” 

“They would not believe you if you tried to tell them, surely.” 

“Yeah, surely.” Clint chuckled, beginning the process of unbuttoning his shirt. His fingers weren’t quite as clever as they usually were, but hey, he was managing. Quicksilver lingered in his doorway for a moment, looking a little lost, before speaking up.

“So, breakfast. Do you think you can handle it?” 

“Show some more respect, we both know I’ll be the one cooking it.” Clint rolled his eyes, shrugging off his shirt and tossing it in the general direction of the bed. He nodded to the other man, going to work on his belt. “Give me twenty, gonna shower and gulp down some painkillers. Can you get coffee going in the kitchen? The good stuff, that dark roast Rhodes likes.” He pulled his belt off with a slick-sounding _snnnk_ as the leather slid out of his belt loops and looked up to see Pietro still watching him from the doorway. 

A slow jolt of heat spread through him at the younger man’s stare, and he shook his head—fuck, yeah, he was definitely still drunk. Not going down that road, no matter how long since he’d last gotten laid. “Silver? You there?” 

“Twenty minutes, you want the dark roast. Yes.” And with that, he was gone in a blur of blue and white. Clint groaned in disdain, walking over to shut the door. It was way too early to be dealing with super-speed.

—✣—

“Is it just me, or is this getting weird?”

“Hmmm?” 

The sound was more of a vibration than a response, and Hawkeye had to restrain the urge to glance up at his companion. He could have put the Quinjet on autopilot, but he had a healthy suspicion of technology when it came to certain things like covert coordinates. It would pass soon enough, probably, but he wanted to put at least a good year between himself and Ultron before he started trusting smart tech too much.

Yeah, maybe he was overly paranoid, but someone needed to balance out Stark’s complete and total reliance on technology, so it was fair. 

“This is the third pair mission we’ve been on in a row. Isn’t that at least a little unusual to you?” 

“Should it?” One moment Pietro was leaning over the back of his chair, the next he was seated beside Clint with an easy shrug pulling his broad shoulders. 

His outfit was a little singed in places, but overall he looked as healthy as ever, which was a relief. The archer’d been paranoid about the kid going on missions for a long while, feeling almost like it was tempting fate, but everything had proven alright so far. Hopefully their luck would hold up. Clint spared the kid a look out of the corner of his eye and shrugged back. 

“It’s just not how Cap operates. Not when it comes to two-people missions, at least. He’s most likely to send tried and tested pairs out—you and Wanda, me and Nat, him and Thor. Either that, or he does that thing where he sends pairs who don’t click right out on test runs with a babysitter.”

“Will you be coming to your point soon?” 

“Yeah, I was just about to, thanks. We’re not exactly a perfect team, not gonna be getting any best friends of the year awards, but it’s not like we clash on the field either. Anymore, anyway, now that you’re less of a jackass.” He ignored the not-quite-subtle Sokovian curse he received, barreling on. “And our capabilities have just about nothing to do with one another, come on. I’m an assassin, you’re a genetically enhanced super-speed machine. Is none of this sitting wrong with you? Like, at all?” Clint could feel his brow furrowing in frustration, but Quicksilver didn’t seem to think much of it. He shrugged again, seemingly with his entire body, and spread his legs out in front of him. 

“I think being a spy all these years has led to you being suspicious. The Captain has no reason for ulterior motives.”

“Yeah, I guess.” It was reluctant, even to his own ears. 

“What, is it so difficult to go on missions with me?” Yep, there it was. A real thread of anger was beginning to weave itself into the younger man’s voice, the kind of anger that would lead to him pulling away and being an absolutely snarky dick for a couple of days. Kid could hold a grudge if he wanted to, a tendency that became most clear when he felt like he was being challenged or insulted. 

“Look, if I didn’t like you, you’d know. Trust me.” Blunt, yeah, but that seemed to suit him best. Even though Clint had gotten his fair share of trouble for it in the past. Still, because Pietro could be a touchy bastard, Clint spared the younger man a pointed look and nodded back towards his pack. “Now go eat something, I packed food for you. You’re a damn terror when you’re hangry.” At the blank, still-unimpressed look he received, Clint elaborated. “Hungry and angry. Like now, after you’ve been running around for three straight hours on almost nothing. Go eat before you collapse, punk. I got you like three sandwiches. And skittles.” 

He didn’t spare the other another look, but the sound of a sandwich wrapper being removed could be heard within the second. Clint allowed himself a moment of satisfaction—damned if these super-people ever took proper care of themselves—before he was surprised by a light weight being settled on his lap.

One of the three sandwiches. Huh.

“Hey, Maximoff, I don’t need this. I’m good till we get home, you’re the one who needs a crazy amount of food to keep yourself running.” 

Ah, puns. One of his many vices.

His companion seemed less than impressed, already halfway done with his own sandwich. He swallowed before replying. 

“I hate puns.” Liar. “You have not been eating either, and you packed more than enough for the both of us. I can wait.” Quicksilver waved a hand in a quick motion, probably to express something along the lines of _I don’t give a fuck, now hurry up and eat before I take your damn sandwich._

“Pietro—”

“Stop arguing and _eat_ , old man. I do not want to die because you refused to turn on the navigation and fainted.”

“Fine.” A beat of silence passed, broken only by the rustle of Pietro opening up a second sandwich. “… Thanks.” 

“You are the one who packed the food.”

“For you.” 

“Stop talking so much and eat your sandwich. If you are wanting a compromise, I will eat all of the candy.” 

“Why the hell do I put up with you?”

—

“There’s something in the air, man, I’m telling you.”

“You’re gonna have to back yourself up better than that, come on. What does _something in the air_ even mean?” _Four. Five._

Working out with Sam was a nice change of pace. It made Clint feel slightly less ridiculous when Steve and Thor were powerlifting thousands of pounds easy as pie. Natasha would always be his favorite sparring partner, but it was nice to sometimes pretend that they were more or less normal guys at the gym, spotting each other and trading off on bench-presses and going for sanely-paced runs around the grounds. 

No, seriously, Clint should be thankful that he was still as fit as an Olympic athlete—Dr. Cho’s (reluctant) words, not his, so he wasn’t even being smug. He needed to drag Sam, Rhodey, and Nat out for a “mere mortals day” soon or something, where they could all eat normal-sized portions and not break anything just by touching it. 

Something told him they’d be all too enthusiastic. 

But back to the present; Clint was currently occupied with the bench press, Falcon lingering just behind him in case the weight got to be too much. From Clint’s angle, Sam’s upside-down face was giving him a _look_ , one of the man’s ever-present smiles beginning to make an appearance. “You’re kidding. I thought you were supposed to see everything?”

“I see things I’m looking for,” Clint grunted, counting down the reps in his mind as Sam looked on. _Six. Seven._ “Enlighten me.” _Eight._

“Stark and Pepper, Thor and Jane, now Wanda and Vision? Like I said—”

“ _What_?” Clint froze with his arms up, staring at Sam in surprise. “Wanda and _Vision_?”

“Not like it’s official, but you know, yeah. It’s there.” 

“But he’s—how would that...?” Clint trailed off, a couple things clicking into place. No wonder Pietro had been more weirdly protective than usual, especially when Vision was around. Huh. Yeah, that was… That would take some adjusting to. After a moment, he just sighed and got back to his reps. _Ten._ “Well, that’s definitely interesting. In a manner of speaking. I’m guessing everyone knows, or what?”

“Nah. Tasha pointed it out to me, and I think Sonic’s got a pretty good idea of what’s going on.” Catching a glance at the archer’s face, he hastily added, “But don’t worry too much about it, alright? She’s shy about things like that, and he’s not about to make any moves on her.” 

“Thank God,” Clint muttered under his breath, finishing his reps. _Fifteen._ He sighed as he pulled himself up and switched places with Sam, crossing his arms in thought. “Alright, so what makes this an epidemic? That’s just three couples, and Tony only comes by every other week. Not the end of the world.” 

“Well, you know.” Sam didn’t seem quite as willing to expand on that. Which was too bad, because Clint was getting curious. 

“You got a girl waiting home for you that you’re not telling us about?” 

That got a laugh out of Sam even as he pushed up on the bar. “Nah. You’ve all been keeping me way too busy for anything like that. Besides, people are starting to recognize me, which isn’t exactly ideal for meeting a girl.” 

“Hey, professional hazard. So?”

“You gonna make me say it out loud?” 

“Depends on what you’re gonna say. I still have no idea what that’s going to be, by the way.” 

“Come on, Clint. Everybody else here’s waiting on someone, even you can see that.” 

“Well, Nat, yeah. It’s not like she’s kept it a secret, she just doesn’t talk much about—wait.” Oh. 

“There it is.”

“No. Cap? Wait, still? But it’s been years and she’s—” 

“Wrong guess, man.” 

“Oh.” _Holy shit._

“Yeah.” 

Even as they switched places again, Clint’s mind was still working, trying to make sense of what he’d just learned. He knew about Nat, sure enough, probably more than anyone else. Cap was a surprise, but if he gave it just a minute of thought… yeah, it kind of made sense. 

But Sam’d said ‘everybody’. For some reason, he didn’t want to ask about anyone else. 

He also didn’t trust the way Sam was looking at him, as though he knew exactly what the other man was thinking. 

There was something there in the back of his mind, an idea that was forming, but whatever it was he knew that it’d be dangerous and potentially unwelcome to his well-earned stability, so Clint just sort of—shut that thought process down.

Instead, he turned the conversation back to Cap, using the most unobtrusive possible language (for him) to get a better feel of exactly how long their leader had been haunted by twin ghosts of what-could-have-been. No wonder the guy was so damn determined to find the Winter Soldier.

—

They fit together better than anyone had expected them to.

... Yeah, no one had seen that one coming, and he kind of hated the kid’s dumb catchphrase.

Clint still wasn’t sure why he and Quicksilver were getting paired for missions so often—more often than was necessary, for sure—but he figured that whatever Steve was up to, he was gonna stick it to him. No one had ever accused Clint of not being a dick half the time, but the beauty of the thing was that no one would be able to fault him for working well with a team member. 

Pietro had been surprisingly agreeable to extra training sessions between the two of them, which had been a relief, because the kid could be ornery as hell when he didn’t want to do something. So they took extra hours training together each week, getting as in-sync as they could possibly be—which was, surprisingly, very in-sync. 

The only problem was that Quicksilver had a random protective streak a mile wide, which wasn’t too apparent in training but quickly became a liability on the field. It was a good thing that his regeneration was as good as it was, because the kid would get damn _sloppy_ , deflecting hits for Clint that the archer probably could have dodged and keeping an eye on him when he should have been keeping his focus on taking care of himself. There were no repeats of Sokovia (thank God) but there had been a couple injuries that had left Clint fantastically stressed-out and kept the kid bedridden for a good half-hour. 

It was a little insulting. 

Clint had done his best to alleviate the kid’s fears—first through arguing about it, then through getting Pietro on his back seven times in a row when sparring at human speed, then by grounding him twice more at _full_ speed with non-lethal arrows. 

Yeah, that did nothing. When Clint pushed the subject, the white-haired man would just force a laugh and say he was looking out for Clint’s delicate health before flitting away somewhere. It made Hawkeye feel increasingly uncomfortable, like he was missing something really obvious, but he had no idea what that could have been.

—

Sometimes there were dreams of hands all over him, like they were everywhere at once. A hot mouth at his pulse, the press of teeth from the smile against his collar.

A deep press and pull, pale skin being blanketed by Clint’s body. Vibration under Clint’s lips. 

_No. Don’t think about it._

—

“Are you _done_?” Clint rolled his eyes at Natasha’s laughter, taking a swig of his beer so that he wouldn’t have to look at her smiling face. It gave him weird feelings, like he was trying really hard to be irritated with her but was too busy enjoying seeing her happy to muster up the proper emotional response to her merciless teasing.

“Yeah, alright, I am, I just—” Her grin was wide as she shook her head, softening a bit the longer she looked at him. “It’s just funny, that you still haven’t gotten it.” 

“Gotten what?”

“Aww.” 

“Nat, come on.” 

Clint received no response for a minute, but he could tell that it was because Natasha was thinking over how best to tell him whatever it was she wanted him to know. It would have made him nervous, maybe, if he wasn’t exhausted from the raid the group had done earlier—big, big HYDRA base. Lots of explosions. Lots of bruises. 

They may have been the only ones who were still awake, actually. Natasha could be awake at any given hour, and Clint could often rely on her for drinks and conversation if he was dealing with a night of insomnia. They’d been having a regular talk, nothing unusual as far as he was concerned, when she’d started laughing at him as though he’d said something beyond ridiculous. The hell? All he’d said was that he’d need to figure out how to curb Pietro’s weird protective instincts. 

“I don’t think there’s anything you can do about that.” Natasha finally said, leaning back against the headboard of Clint’s bed. He raised a brow in response, watching how her red nails glinted in the low light as she took another sip of beer. Her toes matched, to his quiet amusement. He’d never figure out where she always find the time to make herself look so put-together. 

“Wanna explain why that’s so funny?”

“Clint, really.” There was a bit less amusement when she looked at him now, as though he was being purposely dense. Which he _wasn’t_ , thanks. 

“What?”

“I’m sorry, but it’s beginning to look like you’re avoiding this on purpose and it’s beginning to get ridiculous.” At Clint’s blank look, Natasha finally relented. “He likes you, Clint.” A moment of silence passed as he tried to find any understanding of those words that would make sense. Nat didn’t give him the chance. “He _likes_ you.” 

“No he doesn’t, that’s—no.” He shook his head and set his beer down on the bedside table, sitting up straighter to meet Natasha’s gaze head-on. “It’s not like that. He and Wanda see me as some kind of father figure, that’s it. There’s nothing else—”

“That’s not true and you know it. Scarlet, to some degree, maybe, but not your boy. She’s less sure of herself and needs some guidance, but you know what he’s like. He _clings_ to the people he cares about. He had parents, he remembers them, and he loved them. He’s not looking for replacements.”

“You got all that from watching them?” Damn it. That hadn’t been what he’d meant to say—he’d been planning on denying some more or saying something kind of witty. From the minute twitch of his friend’s expression, she noticed his slip.

“Yes. It’s obvious, and you would have seen it too if you’d wanted to.” The redhead tilted her head to the side delicately, studying Clint. “You don’t _want_ him to call you daddy, right?”

“ _God_ , no. Thanks for that thought, Nat, really. I needed it.” 

“You’re welcome.” She was smiling again, little crinkles at the corners of her eyes and her lipstick long since faded from when she’d applied it that afternoon. He liked that, mostly because it was a side of her only he got to see. 

Clint sighed, rubbing his forehead. He’d said it before and he’d say it again: what even was his life? “Look, even if you’re right, I’m almost twenty years older than him.” 

“He’s an adult. He can make his own decisions. You’re running out of excuses.” One of her brows ticked upwards. “Do you not want him?” 

“I don’t.” There was too much emotion in his tone, and Clint was already groaning to himself as Natasha’s lips curled into a dangerous smirk. “Aw Nat, no. Come on, I _don’t_.” 

“Don’t tell me you’re suddenly a prude.” 

“You’re the worst. Why am I friends with you?” He groaned out loud this time, rubbing both hands over his eyes. He was tired and a little drunk and he ached all over; this was definitely not the time to be talking about this. Natasha’s voice was quieter when she spoke, and the look she was giving him when he looked over was much milder. 

“He really loves you, you know. That’s why he sticks his neck out for you like he does. Usually he only does that for Wanda.” 

That was just too believable for Clint to handle right now. He remembered half a dozen times off the top of his head where the younger man had been off his game because of Clint, could think of a full dozen times an honest good word from the archer had made him smile like he was especially pleased with himself. Fuck, those looks he’d been getting from the kid hadn’t been familial at all, had they? Long, hard stares like the kid had been looking for something, waiting for something, and was frustrated when he couldn’t find it. 

Could remember dreams he’d been having for months of soft lips and muscled thighs and a splash of white hair against his pillow. 

_Fuck._

“Yeah, we’re not gonna talk about this anymore.” 

“Alright.” There was no tone to her voice, but Clint could tell that Natasha was at least a little miffed that he’d just shut her down like that after she’d spelled everything out for him. Fuck, again. It wasn’t right to take his messed up feelings out on her, not when time with him was supposed to be a reprieve for her. Clint chewed the inside of his lip for a moment, then nudged the redhead’s elbow with his. 

“I thought you said love is for children? You’ve told me that, like, five times.” 

She gave him a long look, then twitched her shoulders. “I love you?” There was a quirk to her lips that made the words equal parts teasing and honest, somewhere between concession and apology. Clint sighed, wrapping an arm around Natasha’s shoulders and tugging her closer. 

“Love you too.”

—

“What are you doing?”

The voice in his ear and the heat at his back were sudden enough that Clint flinched, turning his head to see Quicksilver leaning over his shoulder to look down at the iPad in his hand. When had they gotten close enough for this sort of thing? Maybe if he could think of a solid date, Clint could figure out when he’d started losing control of this situation, whatever it was. He felt a little too vulnerable for this conversation in just a t-shirt and jeans, one cup of coffee down already and still a little sleepy.

It was so fun being an early riser and hating mornings. Especially when the rest of the Avengers tended to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed first thing. Just his luck. 

“A warning would be nice next time, Roadrunner.” It came naturally now to elbow the younger man lightly even as he took a sip of coffee, raising the iPad so that he could get a better look.

“The news?” 

“Nah, tabloids.” The answer made Pietro press in a bit closer, and _fuck_ , something he would’ve thought nothing of a couple weeks ago suddenly seemed like a goddamn fifty-foot neon sign. Why the hell had he listened to Nat? 

Clint cleared his throat, raising the iPad up a bit higher. “It’s mostly about Tony and Pep’s wedding.” He hesitated. “Mostly.” Pietro’s hand reached over Clint’s shoulder, fingers flicking the screen upwards as he read a good ten paragraphs over the course of the second. 

“They think I am _dating_ Black Widow?” 

“Don’t sweat it. They like reaching for whatever they can.” Clint shrugged, and Quicksilver’s body heat suddenly disappeared from his back. He glanced up to see the kid was leaning back against the counter, right next to where Clint was perched, staring him down with that furrow between his brows that seemed to be his default expression when he wasn’t smirking. “What?”

“Why would they think that?”

“Don’t be so annoyed, come on. According to these guys—” Clint waved the iPad for emphasis, “—all of us have dated Natasha at some point. Especially Cap. And me. Yeah, we’re probably planning a three-way wedding soon, according to The Inquirer.” 

That seemed to do the trick. Pietro relaxed slightly, a smirk quirking his lips. 

“As if you would ever be so adventurous.” 

“Shows what you know about me, kid.” _Aw, mouth._ Clint only had to see a half-second of Quicksilver’s eyes widening and a delighted ( _evil_ ) smirk pulling his lips wide before he interrupted whatever terrible thing the man was no doubt about to say. “Why’d the article bug you so much? Nat’s definitely not the worst person to be paired with.” 

“It does not seem to make much sense, that is all. We do not interact much on the field where they can see us, and I do not like rumors.” Pietro crossed his arms as he spoke, almost defensively. Clint shrugged in response, nudging the kid’s knee lightly with his foot before hooking his heel back on the barstool he was sitting on. 

“You’re a celebrity now, kid. Gonna have to deal with it. Just don’t let it bug you too much, alright?” 

“Mm. What is the real news saying today?” And there he was, leaning right back over Clint’s shoulder, nearly pressing right up against his back. Hawkeye could’ve sworn he felt eyes on his face as he picked up the touchscreen to pull up more articles, but when he chanced a glance at the younger man out of the corner of his eye, he was staring dutifully down at the iPad. And then Pietro reached his hand back over Clint’s shoulder, chest pressing firmly into his shoulder blades as he browsed potentially interesting things to read. 

… Maybe Natasha’d had a point. Was this the kind of thing he’d been purposefully ignoring for months? 

Because it was pretty damn obvious, even by Clint’s standards. 

The problem wasn’t the kid having a crush, though. Hell, if Pietro had waited, what, almost a full year now since meeting Clint and hadn’t said a word, then he probably wouldn’t make a move anytime soon since he definitely wasn’t the most patient person in the world. 

The problem was that the older man found himself leaning back minutely, enjoying the warm press of Pietro’s body against his back, the flutter of breath that touched his cheek every now and then. He should be putting some more space between them, shouldn’t he? 

They weren’t moving, and this was definitely getting weird, because how long did two guys generally stay pressed together like this under an excuse as flimsy as _reading the news_? Clint knew the kid, if he’d wanted to read the news then he just would’ve grabbed the damn tablet and sped himself over to the couch for thirty seconds to read everything he wanted before giving it back and flitting away to do something more interesting. 

Time ticked by as Clint sipped his coffee Pietro stayed where he was, barely keeping up the pretense of browsing now. It didn’t come as a surprise when his hand finally stopped flicking through random articles, body pressing a little more firmly into Clint’s back. 

He swallowed an entire mouthful of coffee by accident, burning his tongue, when he felt the brush of lips against his jaw. _That_ was a surprise, bolder than anything he’d expected after months of a lot more subtlety. 

“Clint.” 

Oh God. Quicksilver’s voice was quiet, deeper, a warm hand that felt like it was vibrating with anticipation creeping around Clint’s waist to settle on his stomach. Shit. Fuck. Abort mission. _Abort mission right the fuck now._

He could physically feel the hitch in the kid’s breath against his back as he froze. 

The hand on Clint’s stomach twitched, the vibration getting stronger. Like the kid was barely restraining himself from doing something—running away, pressing closer, forcing Clint’s hand, whatever. The vibrations only happened when there was too much energy for him to contain, forcing itself out in any way it could. Tense seconds ticked by, and he could feel Pietro holding his breath and shifting his weight away, primed to disappear and avoid him for the rest of—

Then Clint leaned back into it, settling his weight against the younger man firmly. 

Before he could even realize the implications of his own actions, there was a wide smirk pressed against his neck—oh god, that reminded him of too many dreams, how did the kid _know_?—and hands were running all over his body like they wanted to be everywhere all at once. It _felt_ like they were everywhere at once, so light that it was almost innocent enough that he wouldn’t complain but then—yeah, no, _that_ wasn’t innocent at all. 

It made Clint inhale sharply, the same way the other had just seconds ago, and the smile against his neck widened. 

“ _Clint_.” 

The coffee and tablet were on the counter, and Clint was suddenly facing the opposite direction with a faint sense of whiplash, steadying himself on the other man’s arms for some stability. He blinked in surprise for a moment, feeling the solid muscle under his hands, and Pietro’s cocky smile got—impossibly—wider. “Too fast for you?” Clever hands smoothed down Clint’s thighs, squeezing at the swell of his quads appreciatively before hooking around his knees and yanking him closer. 

“Goddamn, buy me dinner first,” Clint muttered in response as the younger man made a space for himself between his spread thighs, pressing in like he belonged there. He’d be damn impossible to deal with if they let this thing between them unfurl, Clint could already tell. 

“Would you like me to? Maybe I can serenade you as well, and bring you flowers.” Kid was grinning ear to ear like the damn cat that got the cream, and all Clint could do was dig his fingers into his biceps as he leaned in with a clear intent towards some mouth-to-mouth contact. 

“Ha, you’re funny. Just listen to me for a second.”

“I am listening.” 

Clint sighed, rubbing his thumbs into Pietro’s flesh lightly through the tracksuit he wore. “What’re you doing, kid? This… C’mon. This is a bad idea.” The hands on Clint’s legs tightened at that, the stormy frown twisting the other man’s expression telling him that the sentiment was neither appreciated or shared.

“Oh?” 

“Come on, I’m way too old for you. We both know that. Which, you know, wouldn’t be a problem, but I get the feeling you’re not exactly looking for a one-time fling. Right?” The way Quicksilver’s blue eyes darkened, head tilting back ever-so-slightly so he could frown down his nose at Clint, spoke volumes before he said a word. 

“You are going to be stubborn, aren’t you?” An impatient huff fell from those lips Clint had thought about more than once, and Pietro pressed closer. “You are thinking too much.” 

“I’m being practical.”

“You are being an idiot.” Those damn lips pressed to Clint’s throat and he closed his eyes, jaw clenching in response. The other man seemed to like that, trailing his mouth up and pressing in, close and warm and entirely inappropriate. 

“I’m trying not to take advantage.”

“Take advantage.” Hot hands tucked themselves under Clint’s shirt, smoothing up and down his back in a flash that left a rush of warmth over his skin.

“Fuck.”

“That is the idea, yes.” 

“ _Woah._ ” Two pairs of blue eyes turned to the doorway, where Sam and Steve both stood, sweating buckets after a morning run that had definitely been more fun for one than the other. Clint jerked backwards to force some space between him and the speedster, who didn’t seem quite as concerned as he was. He took a step back, but his hands hovered over Clint’s thighs as though he wanted to settle them there.

“Sorry, we didn’t know you were, ah…” Steve motioned between Hawkeye and Quicksilver, his other hand settling awkwardly on his hip. “Busy.” 

“It’s fine,” Clint replied with a shrug, tugging back a little further and ignoring the supremely unimpressed look he received, which held about double the potency of the Pietro’s usual are-you-kidding-me-you-ridiculous-American stare. “We weren’t. Busy. It’s fine.” He took an awkward sip of his coffee to prove the point. It was still hot. 

“Right.” A moment of awkward silence. Sam seemed to be trying not to smile, and Clint was trying really, _really_ hard not to notice the killer stare boring into the side of his face. “So the missions worked?” 

“What?” 

Cap coughed. “Romanoff suggested—”

“Stop right there.” Clint held up a hand, setting his coffee down and pinching the bridge of his nose. Of course Natasha had suggested. Of course. Why wasn’t that surprising at all. “I know where you’re going with this, Cap. Thanks.” 

“Right.”

“Yeah, I think we’ll be going now.” Sam to the rescue, as usual. He clapped a hand on Steve’s shoulder and nodded back to the doorway they’d walked through, receiving a nod in response. Steve gave the pair of them a nod and small (oh God, it was encouraging, wasn’t it?) smile before the two of them left. 

Silence reigned again. Clint winced a bit, already knowing what was coming. 

“ _Fuck you._ ” Yeah, Clint knew enough Sokovian to know what that meant. For some reason, he’d heard that one more than just about any other phrase excluding ‘hello’. 

“Yeah, I know.” He sighed, setting his distraction-coffee down and finally meeting the younger man’s gaze. He’d skipped ‘unimpressed’ and gone straight to ‘completely done’, hands settling on Clint’s legs once more after their eyes met. “Sorry. They just surprised me, I didn’t mean that like—” He sighed and shook his head, settling his hands on Pietro’s waist. The glare softened at his touch. “C’mere.” 

“Really?” Pietro’s brows raised, his expression unconvinced. Clint nodded and pulled him bodily closer, enjoying the spark of excitement Pietro wasn’t quite fast enough to hide. 

Ha, that was a first.

“Really. Come on.” 

The kid’s hands vibrated hard as he leaned in to kiss him, happy tremors that went through Clint’s whole body, but his mouth was hot and solid.

—✣—

“Clint. Are you seriously complaining that I got you a boyfriend?”

“Maybe.”

“Seriously.”

“Yeah.”

…

…

…

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“No you’re not.” 

…

“Clint.”

Sigh. “No, I’m not.”

… 

“… Thanks, Nat.” 

Her smile lit up the damn room. The things that made her happy, honestly.

—

They decided early on that they wanted to keep it to themselves, mostly.

Private, intimate. 

Partially because Clint didn’t want to deal with the media craze that’d undoubtedly happen the moment their relationship came to light, murmurs of _openly gay_ and _age difference_ and _political statement_ everywhere with no escape. Partially because it had taken Pietro more time than he was willing to tell Clint to even begin to accept how he felt about the archer, and he wasn’t exactly ready to have the whole world know that he liked being under another man. 

(His words, still a little bitter, not Clint’s. It was amazing how much confidence the kid could fake when he wanted to.)

But if Clint had been interested in the whole world knowing about his private life, he wouldn’t have become a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent to begin with. He liked the privacy, liked that the only people who knew what went on between them was a handful of people who’d die for them, and a handful more who were sworn to secrecy anyway. 

That those wonderful, loyal people had kept a betting pool between themselves for when they would eventually get together didn’t annoy him at all. Really.

Clint knew that it wouldn’t last, it never did. Secrets never stayed secrets, especially not when the people keeping them were constantly under scrutiny world-wide, as condemned as they were trusted. It’d slip one day, maybe because of Quicksilver’s still not-always-subtle protective streak, maybe because Clint would say something without thinking when pressed a little too hard by reporters. 

Maybe it’d become apparent in the way that Pietro tended to invade what should have been Clint’s personal space, long fingers spanning the muscles of his back in a way that was unmistakably proprietary because he was a possessive bastard. It wasn’t a stretch to think that he’d forget himself somewhere where a camera could catch them. Or, given how much more comfortable he was getting with _them_ on the daily, he’d just come out and say it at a press conference. 

Maybe he'd follow it up with that God-awful catchphrase of his. Clint wouldn’t put it past him. 

Maybe someone would catch the way Clint was starting to look at the kid like he hung the damn moon, because Pietro was a snarky asshole with a hellish temper and a whipcrack wit and he hadn’t felt this good about anything in _years_.

So, yeah, the privacy bubble probably wouldn’t last long, and things would seriously suck after it popped. But it was nice living in the now.

—

Life went on. No one noticed anything was out of the ordinary with earth’s mightiest heroes.

Things felt surprisingly… normal.

—

Quick touches played along his skin, the taps of fingertips that moved too fast for one touch not to melt into the next. It felt like there was a steady little thrum going up and down his back, and Clint smiled a bit into his pillow.

“You’re awake?” His voice was rough with sleep, and he didn’t want open his eyes to look at the kid just yet. He was enjoying the touches. The _tap-tap-taptaptatp_ against his skin paused, replaced by a warm palm pressing down between his shoulder blades. 

“Mmhmm.” 

“How long?”

“A little while.”

“You’ve been awfully patient,” Clint drawled, turning his head to face the younger man. He was too comfortable to move just yet, still laying comfortably on his stomach with his arms tucked under his pillow. It was probably the exact same spot he’d landed in when he’d rolled off Pietro—what, a few hours ago? He wasn’t sure. 

“What? I’ve been enjoying myself.” One side of Pietro’s lips twisted up into a small smirk, his hand smoothing along Clint’s shoulders at a decidedly normal pace. It was nice. 

“Mm. Creep. You know, between the accent and the hair and watching people sleep, you pull off vampire better than that Twilight kid.” 

“Shut up.”

“Mmhmm, sure. What time is it?”

“We are already late.” 

Clint groaned, elbows digging into the mattress as he pushed himself up and rolled out of bed.

—

“ _There_ they are! Hey, boys.” Natasha’s low voice is teasing, glossy red lips curled into a teasing little smile as they enter the common area.

Clint barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes in response, leaning over the back of the couch and accepting a beer from her. Pietro left his side to greet his sister, meeting her near the stairs to share some words via secret twin telepathy. Maybe they’d split apart fast enough for no one else to notice, because for a bunch of adults ranging mid-twenties to mid-forties, the Avengers really knew how to tease each other like teenagers. 

“You’d think you’d be out of the honeymoon phase by now, huh?” 

There it was. 

“Stuff a sock in it, Stark.” Clint hoisted himself over the back of the couch and bounced down next to Natasha, her legs curling in automatically to avoid collision. They uncurled as soon as he settled in against the arm opposite her, toes tucking under his thigh. 

“I’m just saying, you almost missed movie night. Again. Don’t you have any respect for team traditions?” Tony waved the remote between Clint and Pietro to emphasize his point, brows raised in a fantastic impression of faux-seriousness. 

“None whatsoever. Aren’t you supposed to be retired, Stark?” Pietro’s voice suddenly comes from right in front of him, and Clint glanced down just as his blue-clad back settled against his legs. He’d procured a cushion from somewhere and was settled comfortably on it, head lolling back against the archer’s knee so he could raise a brow at Tony. 

Clint resisted the urge to run a hand through his dual-toned hair, because they had _limits_. They weren’t gonna be _that_ couple, dammit. 

“Oh, Sonic, that hurts. You’re breaking my heart.”

Pietro scoffed in response. 

Cap chose that moment to appear with three bowls of popcorn in tow, nodding to the new arrivals. “You guys decided to show up, then?” 

“You know, you’d _think_ that the novelty of mocking us would’ve worn off by now.” Clint rolled his eyes, reaching for a bowl and settling it between him and Natasha. She smirked as she popped a piece into her mouth. 

“It hasn’t even been a month, don’t be ridiculous.” Tony waved it off, flipping through movie options without giving any one much thought. He gracefully ignored Clint's muttered protest of 'it's been over two months, asshole'. “Besides, we can always mock you, Hawkguy.” 

“One typo. _One_.” 

“And yet none of our names are ever misspelled.” Thor’s grin was wide and easy, and Clint almost couldn’t quite find it in himself to be annoyed with him. 

Almost. 

“Whatever, man. Your name’s four letters, how’s that an argument?” 

“Yeah, alright, alright. Settle down, all of you.” Sam shook his head as Cap sat down next to him with a smirk—seriously, how did anyone think that being from the forties meant this guy wasn’t a complete dick?—and motioned to Tony. “Alright, take it away Stark. What’re we watching tonight?”

“Keep in mind, we have veto power.” Natasha gave Tony a pointed look, one he casually ignored. At Rhodey’s serious look, he sighed.

“Yeah, of course you do. I’m just saying that Sharknado is a perfectly viable choice for movie night, and since it _should_ be my turn to pick without hindrance…”

And there he went.

Clint stopped paying attention as his teammates got into it about the merits of one movie over another, leaning back into the couch and focusing in on the barely-there vibration he felt against his legs. 

Yeah. This was good.

**Author's Note:**

> a comment would mean the world to me, and would encourage me to get cracking on the next works in the series. just saying. :)


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